The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One
by Jade Hunter
Summary: [Rewritten] AU. Baby Harry was abandoned, but quickly adopted. How will the heir to Cabot Enterprises handle being a wizard? And where in the world is Harry Potter?
1. And Baby Makes Three

**Title:** The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One

**Author:** Jade Hunter

**Disclaimer:** The characters and properties of _Harry Potter_ all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end. Bury Lawn school actually is a private school in England, but only the name is really used here.

**A.N.:** Well, almost every Harry's AU childhood fics have him living on the steps of poverty and abuse - often times both. I've decided to change that. Of course, Harry wouldn't be Harry if he didn't have something to moan about...

**A.N. 2: **No matter how many times I rewrite this, even the first chapter is incapable of satisfying my muse. Finicky bitch.

* * *

Hugh Cabot was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His ancestors, descent from the nobles of old, had moved to Great Britain from France centuries before his birth, their original name of Capet being typically butchered before long. He went to Bury Lawn, a private school, for his primary education, but was sent to Eton for his secondary education instead of continuing at Bury Lawn - both schools had cost a hefty amount of money, many thousands of pounds a year, but that had never been an issue, because Hugh was a Cabot. He took and passed his O-Levels, then his A-Level exams, all with flying colors - for nothing less would do, and went on to university. Hugh studied at Oxford like the dutiful son he was, all the while learning from his father, Janlan Cabot, how to slowly take over Cabot Enterprises, a multi-billion dollar shipping industry created at the bored whims of Hugh's great-grandfather, more than a century back.

When Hugh was twenty-six, he was matched up with Adelaide Duncan, the only child of another wealthy family, who was twenty-one at the time. Hugh was a dashing young man, clean cut and blessed with angular features, as well as honey-blond hair and piercing green eyes. Adelaide was equally appealing to the eyes, her black hair and dark brown eyes providing a shocking, yet not unpleasant, contrast. They were deemed the perfect couple. They married when Hugh was twenty-eight, and Hugh took over Cabot Enterprises the moment he came back from the honeymoon, as was tradition. In truth, Hugh was more than wealthy enough to never work a day in his life and still have enough to give his future great-grandchildren an equally comfortable life, but that did not stop him from working - because Cabots were not sit-on-your-bum types; they were the go-into-the-world-and-conquer types, who never failed in all that they aspired to.

Except, when Hugh was thirty-one, he and Adelaide found out that they could not have children. Or, more specifically, Hugh could not have children. Ah, if only it had been Adelaide, solving the problem would have been so much easier. Had Adelaide been the infertile one, Hugh could have simply divorced her and remarried for his heir - but it was Hugh who was incapable, and no amount of remarrying could change that. Of course, neither of them wanted this to get out - imagine the scandal, how everyone would talk behind their backs!

And so, they - Hugh and Adelaide - bent their heads together over the problem, finally reaching a decision. Adoption was the answer, and it could be done during a two-year-long vacation they would take visiting their various estates across the globe, so that they could claim that Adelaide had conceived and given birth during the trip.

Then the little details had to be hammered out. Adopting from a high-profile orphanage was simply out of the question; they had managed to silence the doctor who had diagnosed their problem on the promise of ruining his career if he ever let slip, but adoption meant paperwork. No, better to go to a small-town, quaint little place, where the workers could easily be quailed and/or bought into keeping their mouths shut.

For a long while, they despaired of ever finding the right child. In fact, it was only when they were nearing their deadline, with only two months or so to go, that they found the perfect baby in a county southwest of London - called Surrey.

* * *

The manager of the orphanage looked like he had seen better times before - much like the orphanage itself. But that was good, because it meant that the promise of money would hold sway, so Hugh and Adelaide tolerated his anxious hovering.

"His name?" Adelaide asked a trifle cooly, in an attempt to disguise the way her heart fluttered in her chest. After all this time...

The lean man bowed; he did not know who these people were, exactly, save for the fact that they were wealthy and willing to donate money to both the orphanage and to his private accounts, _if_ he was helpful. And he was trying his very best to be helpful. "The couple that dropped him off left his papers as well, signed papers absolving themselves of guardianship - his name is Harry Potter. Fourteen months old."

Hugh was surprised. Most abandoned babies didn't have papers; then again, most abandoned babies were left on the front stoop, not hand delivered like the manager said this one had been. More's the advantage - now they could have him secretly adopted. And change his name, of course.

"He can't be called Harry," Adelaide said firmly, and Hugh nodded, pleased. While theirs was a marriage of convenience more than anything else, there was some fondness there, and many times like these when his wife seemed to be thinking on the same wavelength he was. They did make a good couple, in practical terms. "It's far too plain - no one would ever believe we'd name our child that."

"So you'll take him, then?" the manager asked, fairly aglow with anticipation.

The couple didn't so much as spare him a glance; Hugh simply nodded, and the man scampered off to draw up the necessary papers.

Thinking deeply for a moment, Adelaide suggested, "Lucas? That was your grandfather's name."

"And I hated him," Hugh said flatly. "What about Harold?"

"We don't want it to be so close to his former name," Adelaide disagreed. "Perhaps it could serve as his middle name, but..." She thought some more, and smiled a little as inspiration struck her. "Tristan. We must name him Tristan."

When she had been growing up, she had been obsessed with Arthurian Legend, especially one particular tragic love story. Not that the love triangle between Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot hadn't been interesting, but in Adelaide's eyes, nothing could top the beautiful tale of Tristan and his Isolde.

Hugh furrowed his brows, considering. "Tristan." A good name, strong. He liked it, and told her so, making her smile again, a tad dreamily. Running a finger over the curve of the sleeping babe's cheek, he, too, smiled a little.

And Harry Potter, soon to be Tristan Harold Cabot, slumbered on, not knowing that he was now the heir to an entire enterprise, not knowing that - somewhere out there - wizards and witches of all shapes and sizes were toasting his name.

Nor would he realize that when his name was legally changed, his old name disappeared from the magical book at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, only to be replaced with his new name. For that matter, no one would realize this little fact until ten years later.

* * *

**A.N. 3: **The real Hugh Capet was actually the king of France, who ruled from from 987 to 996. His wife was Adelaide of Aquitaine, and he was the son of Hugh the Great - the Duke of France - and Hedwig of Saxony. Which is why I used Hugh and Adelaide Cabot as the names of Harry's new parents - and only the names. Nothing else is the same with the historical figures, nor are they the descendants of Hugh Capet, though they are pretty rich blood.

TBC…


	2. A Letter, A Professor, and A Change

**Title:** The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One

**Author:** Jade Hunter

**Disclaimer:** The characters and properties of _Harry Potter_ all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end. Bury Lawn school actually is a private school in England, but only the name is really used here.

**A.N.:** Merlin's beard, can it be true? Is this really another chapter? Former readers will note that, yes, indeed, the first chapter went through another rewrite. I just hated the names I'd used in the beginning, so changed that, and the history of the Cabots just seemed like a good way to start things.

* * *

_**Ten Years Later...**_

It was that time again, when letters were sent out to the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, both new and old. To the families that were aware of magic, of course. There was always a new batch of families each year who had never produced a magical child before, and to these families, a different sort of letter was sent.

And so it was that the maid set a yellowing envelope next to the plate of one Tristan Harold Cabot on a particular July morning during breakfast.

He was startled to find that there was no return address, nor was there a stamp - just his own name and address, written in green ink. It wasn't an invitation to a party, that was for sure. None of the people he knew would ever use - was this parchment? That would explain the color, then, as well as the unusual thickness and weight of it. Brows furrowing, Tristan turned the envelope over in his hands, and found that it was closed by means of a purple wax seal with a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H_.

Noticing his son's preoccupation, Hugh, seated at the head of the dining room table, lowered the morning paper and addressed him, "What is it?"

Adelaide, seated across from her son, also looked up, even as the cook brought in a fresh plate of toast, taking away the old plate, and went around refilling cups of coffee and orange juice.

"I'm not sure," Tristan said absently in reply, and carefully opened the envelope, shaking out the letter inside. He scanned the letter, eyebrows rocketing up in surprise, and read aloud:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL for GIFTED YOUNGSTERS_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_Dear Mr. Cabot,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School for Gifted Youngsters. We are aware that you may have some questions, and a representative will visit you on Saturday, July 22, at one o'clock in the afternoon._

_Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

When he was done, Tristan looked at his father in askance, extremely surprised. Had his father applied to this Hogwarts in his stead?

"Of course not," Hugh answered briskly, when his son proposed the question. "Cabots go to Eton. We'll just have to explain that to this representative they send tomorrow, and that'll be the end of it."

* * *

At precisely one o'clock the following Saturday, the doorbell rang. The butler answered the door as Hugh, Adelaide, and Tristan gathered in the sitting room at the right of the entrance hall of their manor.

A little research had shown that Hogwarts School was a very prestigious, private boarding school somewhere up in Scotland. It was so private and prestigious, in fact, that they had no way for people to apply - only those who received the invitations the school sent out were eligible for attendance. It pleased Hugh to no end that _his_ son had received one of these highly coveted invitations (though Tristan himself was a bit more skeptical - yes, he was one of the top ranks in his class, but it was nothing extraordinary, and he wasn't aware of any gifts), but Cabots went to Eton. And that was that.

Idly, Tristan wondered how the representative had gotten to the front porch without ringing in through the gate - but then the butler was leading the representative in, and the three of them stood up. She had black hair, pulled back tightly into a bun, and wore conservative clothing that consisted of a long, heavy skirt and a high-collared, long-sleeved blouse covered by a tweed cardigan. A pair of spectacles rested themselves on the tip of her nose, adding to her stern, no-nonsense appearance, and her steps were brisk and firm.

"Professor Minerva McGonagall to see you," Zachary, the butler, announced dutifully, halting by the doorway.

Hugh stepped forward, hand extended and a charming smile on his face as he introduced himself, "Hugh Cabot. My wife, Adelaide, and my son, Tristan."

Tristan waited until his mother had stepped back from her handshake, but stopped in his tracks when Professor McGonagall gasped and stared wide-eyed at him. Her gaze made him uncomfortable; being the Cabot heir, he was more than used to attention, but the sheer intensity in her stare made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and stand up. Nonetheless, he ignored it, took her suddenly drooping hand, shook, and said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor."

"Please, have a seat," Adelaide offered, exchanging a look with her husband as Professor McGonagall fairly collapsed onto the couch. "Are you all right, Professor?"

That seemed to get her attention, and she waved away their concern, her eyes flickering to Tristan once more as she said absently, "Yes, fine. It's just... Your son looks very much like a former student of mine."

Tristan became aware of how his mother stiffened next to him, but tucked that fact away into the recess of his mind, more preoccupied with now Professor McGonagall was looking at his forehead. It was disconcerting, especially since she couldn't possibly know that she was looking at the precise location where his strange, lightning-shaped scar had been before plastic surgery had erased it. To disguise his unease, he ran a hair through his short black hair, ruffling the spikes that stood up all over the place.

"Tea?" Adelaide asked politely as the maid came in, carrying a large tray with tea and biscuits, relieved to have something to fill the uneasy silence that had arisen at the Professor's strange behavior.

Professor McGongall gathered her bearings, "Yes, thank you."

They spent a few moments in less awkward silence, the only sound the clinking of spoon against the delicate china teacups as each adjusted their tea to suit their tastes, Tristan nibbling on twice the biscuits everyone else ate.

"I suppose we should inform you that you are wasting your time," the Cabot family Patriarch said, finally. "While we have heard great things about your school, and are flattered at the invitation, my son will be attending Eton."

"Perhaps you should hear me out before you make any final decisions, Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall smiled faintly. "Hogwarts is not...your average school."

"Yes, well, nevertheless, Tristan will attend Eton," Hugh insisted. "It is a family tradition, you see."

The Professor's smile turned slightly more amused, "Yes, well. I suppose _I_ should tell _you_ outright that the letter you received a few days ago wasn't the correct version. It was just something to pave our way. I have the correct letter right here."

She pulled out an envelope from an inside pocket of her sweater and handed it to Tristan. He glanced at his parents before turning this new envelope over in his hands. On the outside, nothing seemed different - same parchment, same wax seal and coat of arms.

Well, there didn't seem to be any harm in opening it.

He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter, eyes widening as he took in the words written on the parchment. Tristan gaped at the Professor - was she insane?

"Read it aloud, please, Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall said quite firmly, in a tone that told Tristan she was used to being obeyed.

One eyebrow arching upwards skeptically, Tristan nonetheless did as he was bid:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Cabot,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

For a long time, there was pure silence in the room. Tristan glanced at his parents, who were staring at Professor McGonagall, their polite expressions more than a bit strained. He knew that it was only years of experience that was letting them keep their composure instead of leaping up and demanding the obviously mad woman leave their home at once.

Hugh opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, struggling to find something to say that wouldn't be rude, but Professor McGonagall interrupted him. She pulled out a long stick from the same pocket as the letter, pointed it at the plate of biscuits, and muttered something under her breath.

Obediently, the plate floated up about a foot off the table.

Silence.

Tristan gaped anew. Was he seeing things? A quick look at his parents and their own bug-eyed expressions told him that, if he was seeing things, he wasn't the only one. He leaned forward, reaching out to check if there were any strings holding the plate up - but his mother snatched his hand out of the air and clutched it in a grip so tight he felt his bones creak.

"Mother," he protested, even as Professor McGonagall said calmly, "I assure you, no harm will come to your son."

"Wha - wha...I just...you - I mean..." Hugh Cabot was, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words.

"Magic is real," Professor McGonagall said in reply, setting the plate down neatly with another flick of her stick. "There are people in this world who can perform magic - who we call witches and wizards - through the use of a wand."

A flick of her stick - her _wand_ - and suddenly the armchair opposite the one Hugh was sitting on was replaced by a swan, who stretched out its long neck and flapped its wings. Another flick, and the chair was back, cushion and all.

Suddenly, the too-tight grasp on Tristan's hand went slack, and he turned back just in time to see his mother slump over in a dead faint.

* * *

It had taken a while to get Mrs. Cabot back into the land of wakefulness, and even more time to fully explain the concept of the magical world to the trio. Minerva was used to this muggle reluctance to believe in new things, despite having all the proof in the world, so she was patient with them. Even when, after all her painstaking explanations, Mr. Cabot (senior) insisted that the young Mr. Cabot needed to attend Eton.

It was only when she explained that young Mr. Cabot needed to be trained, or his magic would begin to lash out indiscriminately, that the senior Mr. Cabot began to seriously consider the options. But another step was taken backwards when Minerva began to outline all the different jobs were available in the magical world - apparently, young Mr. Cabot already had a job. He would one day take over the family company, and, to do that, he needed a muggle education.

They had (politely) argued the point, until the young man in question suggested homeschooling for his muggle subjects during the summers. It would be no trouble, Tristan Cabot pointed out, for them to hire the best of Professors to teach him at home. The option had been mulled over, the potential problems discussed, and eventually the senior Mr. Cabot had consented. His son could attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry come September.

With the acceptance letter in hand, as well as a promise to come back the following Saturday (the 29th) to take the lad shopping for his school supplies, Minerva apparated back to Hogwarts. She reported to the Headmaster another success, and retreated into her own office to think.

Young Mr. Cabot's uncanny resemblance to her memory of an eleven-year-old James Potter had been a great shock. Oh, there were little differences; for one thing, Tristan Cabot was a bit less gangly than James Potter had been, and had no glasses. But the similarities were there, enough to make her wonder if that old adage about everyone having a twin out there was, indeed, true. She imagined that Harry Potter would look much like Tristan Cabot, right down to the colors of his hair and his eyes.

And that made her remember that Harry Potter was nowhere in the Book of Names. And if the child wasn't in the Book, then the child had no magical potential - at least, not enough to warrant an invitation to school. It had baffled them all - how could the child who had defeated You-Know-Who as a baby possibly be a squib? Had those muggles ruined him? Minerva had known that it was a bad idea to leave the savior of the wizarding world with the likes of them, she'd just known it!

The Headmaster was planning on sending Hagrid to Harry Potter's location in a few days, to find out exactly what was going on, and Minerva, for one, couldn't wait to get some answers.

* * *

TBC…


	3. First Trip to Diagon Alley

**Title:** The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One

**Author:** Jade Hunter

**Disclaimer:** The characters and properties of _Harry Potter_ all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end. Bury Lawn school actually is a private school in England, but only the name is really used here.

**A.N.:** I've been reading through the reviews left from the very beginning, and the sheer number of pleads for me to update for Merlin's sake is simply quite mortifying for me. Makes me feel terrible, but my muse is a fickle beast - I am, quite simply, one of those types who can only write when the wind takes me there. Willing myself to write results only in myself staring at a blank screen for hours on end. Still, I must offer my apologies to all my old readers, though they may never read this at all, having abandoned all hope, as they had more than ample reason to have done so.

* * *

When Minerva McGonagall apparated to the Cabot estate at half-past noon, the pre-arranged time, she found two of the three Cabots waiting patiently for her.

"My husband was called to work on an emergency," Adelaide Cabot explained calmly, clad in an elegant navy-blue suit obviously designed and tailored specifically for her. She wore low heels, for practicality's sake, and carried a small matching purse in one perfectly manicured hand. "I hope you'll excuse his absence, Professor McGonagall."

"Of course, Mrs. Cabot," Professor McGonagall responded graciously. Dealing with these Cabots were somewhat akin to dealing with some of the matriarchs or patriarchs of the wizarding families, and this was something she was used to. "And good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Cabot."

Her second view of Tristan Cabot was a bit less shocking than the first. He was dressed quite handsomely in a pair of pressed trousers, a light blue dress shirt, a navy blazer with matching tie - and it was much harder to be reminded of James Potter now, who had always managed to find himself in one scrap or another, and would never have been half as well behaved or as patient as young Mr. Cabot was being.

As if to lend testament to her thoughts, Tristan smiled politely, "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Marcus, our driver, is bringing the car around for us, Professor McGonagall," Adelaide informed, as the three of them stepped off the porch and onto the cobbled driveway, Zachary closing the door behind them.

The car was sleek and silver, the windows heavily tinted, and probably cost more than most people's homes. The driver, wearing a black uniform and cap, got out of the front seat to come around and open the back door for them; he held it open until all three piled in, then went back around to settle himself in.

"Where to?" Marcus asked politely.

Adelaide and Tristan both looked at Professor McGonagall in askance, and she produced a scrap of paper with the address on it. Rather than read it aloud, she passed it up to the driver, who scanned the address, nodded, and drove out of the driveway and through the tall black gates that had been opened from the house.

The drive was quiet, everyone immersed in their own thoughts until Professor McGonagall asked him, "Do you have your letter with you, Mr. Cabot?"

Silently, Tristan took the parchment envelope out of his breast pocket inside his blazer.

"You'll find a list of items you need to purchase before the start of term," she said.

Tristan frowned a little; he was sure there wasn't any list. He'd thoroughly examined the envelope and its contents the week before. To his complete surprise, there was, indeed, a second piece of paper he had seemingly missed, and it read:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_UNIFORM_

_First Year students will require:_

Three sets of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protected gloves (dragonhide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

_Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags_

_COURSE BOOKS_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

_OTHER EQUIPMENT_

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad_

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

Tristan's mind was bursting with fresh questions added to the ones he had come up with over the course of the week. Was there actually a place in London where they could buy all of these things? What did the list mean by robes? A pointed hat? For wearing? _Dragon_ hide? Transfiguration? Dark Forces? An actual cauldron?

But, of course, any questions he posed now would be overheard by Marcus, who was entirely unaware of his young Master's magic. And so, despite it all, Tristan kept a tight rein on his curiosity and his mouth, simply choosing to read the list over and over again in an effort to will the distance away.

* * *

Eventually, the car came to a stop.

"Park the car," Adelaide ordered the driver. "I'll call as we come out, so you can look around in the stores, but please don't wander too far, Marcus."

Marcus tipped his hat in response and drove away to look for a parking space. The Cabots followed Professor McGonagall as she led them past the large bookstore they had been dropped off in front of.

"Here we are," Professor McGonagall announced. "The Leaky Cauldron."

It was a tiny, grubby pub.

Tristan glanced at his mother, fully expecting revulsion, and found it in her eyes, though the rest of her expression was composed. He himself was a bit disgusted, but also fascinated - this had to be the most run down building he'd ever seen in his entire life. It was strange, though, how he hadn't noticed it until Professor McGonagall had stopped in front of it and announced its presence; considering how shabby its appearance was compared to the bookstore and the record shop, Tristan would have thought everyone would be looking. Instead, it seemed as though no one even saw the dingy pub at all.

The inside was better, but not by much. It was very dark and shabby, and there were a few old women sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man wearing a top hat, of all things, was speaking to the old bartender, who looked just as old and worn down as the establishment he worked in. The low buzz stopped when the three of them walked in; there were some curious glances, but most seemed to recognize Professor McGonagall, smiling or inclining their heads respectfully.

"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall," the old bartender said, smiling, and that one act made him far less haggard looking. "Hogwarts business?"

"Quite, Tom," Professor McGonagall replied. "I'm introducing young Mr. Cabot and his mother here to the wonders of the wizarding world."

'_Well, if this is the wonders of the wizarding world, I don't think my parents will approve anymore,'_ Tristan thought, glancing at his mother. She was holding herself stiffly, purse clutched tightly in her hand, and looking around with darting glances that always came back to rest on Professor McGonagall.

"Ah, another muggleborn, eh? Well, Mr. Cabot, welcome to the wizarding world," Tom said, grinning widely.

Tristan smiled back politely, but refrained from saying anything.

A pale young man made his way forward, looking somewhat nervous. An eye was twitching, and Tristan wondered if he was mentally unstable. That would explain the purple turban and the...dress? Or were those the robes that the list was talking about? As the new man and Professor McGonagall traded greetings, obviously being familiar with each other, Tristan looked around again, this time taking in the clothes the people were wearing. If it wasn't a top hat, it was a man wearing a robe, and if it wasn't that, it was a woman with frilly, high-necked dresses - not a single one of them wore simple slacks and shirts. Fashion wise, Tristan was forced to conclude, these people were stuck centuries behind the modern world.

"Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall said, snapping him out of his thoughts, "this is Professor Quirrell. He will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts."

The young professor tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, and he stammered, "P-p-pleased to m-meet you, C-c-cabot."

Tristan ignored the stuttering, as was proper, and replied politely, "Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Professor."

This seemed to reassure him a little, and the stuttering went down. A bit. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on v-v-vampires, myself."

Professor Quirrell looked terrified at the very thought, and Tristan privately wondered how such a nervous man could teach students defense against _anything_, much less the Dark Arts.

"Well, we must get on," Professor McGonagall said, nodding at Professor Quirrell, and ushered Tristan and his mother through the bar and out back into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. Here, Professor McGonagall paused to sigh a little, and said to Tristan, "I hope you don't judge Professor Quirrell too hastily, Mr. Cabot. In truth, he is a brilliant mind. He was perfectly suited to his position when he taught out of his books, but... He took a year off to get some first-hand experience, and that was how he came back to us, poor thing."

Tristan was a bit skeptical - what could possibly make a man so...nervous? And then, as he realized that the world was not as he'd known for all his life, and things were different in the magical world, the question took on a different tone. What _was_ out there in the wizarding world that could make a man so nervous?

Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and tapped a brick three times.

It quivered, wriggled, and a small hole appeared in the middle. Rapidly, the hole grew in size, becoming wider and wider until they were facing an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

Tristan heard his mother gasp, was hard pressed not to gape, but managed to keep his composure, swallowing hard instead.

Professor McGonagall looked back at them and smiled, "Come along, please."

Adelaide reached out to grasp her son's shoulder as she stepped through the archway with him; Tristan turned around just in time to see the archway shrink back into a tiny hole that eventually disappeared, leaving behind the solid wall from before.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

Tristan knew from his list that he would need one, pewter, but Professor McGonagall passed it by without thought. "Excuse me, Professor, don't I need a pewter cauldron?"

"You will be needing one, yes, Mr. Cabot, but first, we need to go to Gringotts," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "For money."

"I have money now," Adelaide spoke up.

And that begged the question - did wizards use regular money?

"You will need them exchanged from muggle currency to wizarding currency, Mrs. Cabot," Professor McGonagall explained, answering Tristan's unspoken question.

Tristan sorely wished he could turn his head every which way as they walked along, gaping at every new incredible thing that he saw, but he could not. He was a Cabot, even if these people didn't know it, and Cabots did not go around gawping like mindless fools. Still, Tristan was an eleven-year-old boy as much as he was a Cabot, and so sneaked a few rapid glances when he thought his mother wouldn't see.

There was an Apothecary, a dark shop that had a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. There were kids his age, pressing their faces against a display window, shops selling robes, telescopes, and strange silver instruments that Tristan had never seen before. There were windows stacked with bat spleens and eel eyes, piles of books...

"Gringotts," Professor McGonagall said. "The wizarding world's only bank, run by goblins."

Tristan felt his mother start at that, and he, too, felt a little strange as a mixture of skepticism and anticipation welled within him. Goblins? Real goblins?

They walked closer to a snowy white building that towered over all the other shops, with burnished bronze doors. His mother's fingers dug into his shoulder, but that was all forgotten as Tristan caught sight of the figure standing beside the doors, wearing a sharp little uniform of scarlet and gold. A little more than a head shorter than Tristan himself, the goblin was nonetheless a bit intimidating, as well as dignified. He - it - the goblin, that is, had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and very long fingers and feet.

The goblin bowed as they walked inside.

Now they were at a second doorway, silver doors this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed,_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors,_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware,_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

The last line sounded like a serious threat, and Tristan quickly forgot his amazement that goblins could rhyme in favor of wondering who, exactly, would be mad enough to try and steal from goblins.

A pair of them bowed the trio through the silver doors, and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these.

Professor McGonagall let them to a counter, "Good morning. We are here to have muggle money exchanged for wizarding money."

"How much, ma'am?"

The Professor turned to Tristan's mother, who stepped forward daintily, hiding her nervousness quite well, in his opinion. "Do - do you take credit cards?"

The goblin peered at her, "As a matter of fact, we do, ma'am. We can also create an account for you here, linked to the credit card account. This way, you won't be inconvenienced by having to exchange currencies each time you visit - and when you access your account at Gringotts, it will automatically draw money from your muggle account and exchange it."

"That would be better, I should think," Adelaide said in a firmer tone of voice than before. This was a bank, she reminded herself, and she could handle banks. Even if the tellers were goblins. "What is the exchange rate?"

"Wizards deal not in pounds, but in Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts," the goblin explained, and brought out three different colored coins. "The gold ones are Galleons, the silver ones are Sickles, and the bronze coins are Knuts. There are twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, seventeen Sickles to a Galleon." Tristan furrowed his brows, repeating the phrase in his head in an effort to memorize it as the goblin continued, "A Knut is equal to about £0.01, a Sickle around £0.29, and a Galleon is £5.00."

That gold coin was only worth £5.00? Tristan wondered if it was pure gold, because if it was, that was entirely ridiculous. Of course, it was in their favor, but...

Opening her purse, which simply folded out once the snap was undone, Adelaide chose a platinum credit card at random, handing it to the goblin. Tristan couldn't see what the goblin was doing with it, for he - it - whatever, worked behind the counter, but he could hear the faintest hint of surprise when the goblin asked, "You are aware that this credit card has no limits?"

"Yes, I'm aware," Tristan's mother answered.

The goblin nodded slightly, "And under whose name should the account be formed?"

"My son, Tristan Harold Cabot," Adelaide replied firmly, and this time earned a shocked look from Professor McGonagall.

Tristan could almost imagine what she was thinking - an unlimited account for an eleven-year-old boy? But, of course, Professor McGonagall couldn't possibly understand that giving him an unlimited access to money wasn't any different from every day life. If Tristan wanted something, all he had to do was ask for it, and it would be there the next day. Some people might consider that spoiling a child, but it was all done with the knowledge that Tristan would earn this money back twice over when he took over the company.

The goblin, however, simply nodded, and continued to fiddle. At length, he finally looked up, peering down at Tristan from his perch, "Your hand, please?"

Confused, he stepped forward and offered his right hand, palm up. The goblin dropped a small, gold key onto his hand instead of doing something nefarious, and Tristan retracted his arm with no little amount of relief.

"I shall have someone take you to your vault," the goblin said. "Griphook!"

Griphook was, of course, another goblin. At Professor McGonagall's fervent advice, Adelaide chose to remain behind as Tristan went to retrieve his money, following this new goblin towards the hall with the numerous doors. Griphook held the door open for him; Tristan, who was expecting more marble, was surprised when he was confronted with a narrow stone passageway with flaming torches lighting the way. It sloped steeply downwards, and there were little railway tracks on the floor. The goblin whistled sharply, and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks.

Like any sensible person, Tristan was wary of climbing into a vehicle (of sorts) with an unknown person (creature) that led down a darkened hallway. In the end, however, he decided that this was a bank, after all, and since he was a client...

At first, they hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Initially, it was a little alarming when he noticed that Griphook wasn't steering, but the goblin didn't seem worried, so he let himself relax and enjoy the ride. Tristan felt his stomach rise and drop several times - he couldn't help the laughing whoop that escaped. Roller coasters were his favorite kind of ride, specifically because of the tingling sensation created by his stomach dropping unexpectedly. Any ride that made his adrenaline pump and his heart beat rapidly topped his list of favorite rides, but roller coasters were supreme.

The cart came to an abrupt stop, in front of a vault door that was about two-and-a-half feet in length and width. Griphook opened the door, and Tristan saw that the depth of the vault wasn't much more than a foot. It was, however, filled with piles of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts.

"For your type of unlimited credit card account, a smaller vault like this is used," Griphook said suddenly. "Once you empty the money in this vault, more will be transfered from your muggle account to replace what you take out."

Tristan nodded; he could see the sense in that, rather than having a vault as large as a room. Unlimited was unlimited, but Tristan was sure his father would not want all of their wealth exchanged into wizarding money and placed in a wizarding bank. Although the security certainly seemed impressive - he didn't think anyone could remember their way to a particular vault, not with how wildly the carts sped through the tunnels.

Griphook offered him a black velvet pouch, which Tristan filled with handfuls of money. He was surprised (once again) by the fact that the weight of the pouch did not seem to change, no matter how much money he poured in. Nor did the appearance change - even when he had emptied half of the vault's contents into the pouch, it still looked limp and half-empty, especially when he pulled the silver drawstring and closed the pouch.

'_Nice way to deter thievery,'_ Tristan thought admiringly as he climbed back in the cart for another stomach-dropping ride. In some ways, magic was proving itself to be far more useful than he'd originally anticipated, even.

* * *

"We should get your uniform first, Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall said, gesturing towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

'_Robes? Joy.'_ Nonetheless, Tristan smiled politely and nodded, the money pouch tucked in the breast pocket lining the inside of his blazer. Still there was no weight greater than that of an empty pouch, nor was there a telltale bulge that spoke of money. It was intriguing, but as they entered Madam Malkin's, the thought was quickly chased away by more questions on robes.

Or, specifically, if he absolutely had to wear them. But that seemed rude to ask in a store that dealt in the very item, so Tristan kept his mouth shut as a squat, smiling woman dressed in deep peridot came up. She introduced herself as Madam Malkin herself, exchanged pleasantries with Professor McGonagall, shook hands politely with Tristan's mother, and smiled down at Tristan himself.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked unnecessarily, and pointed him towards a stool. "Get up on there, and we'll see about getting you fitted up."

Tristan wondered if there was a place to get robes specially designed and tailored for a person, but stopped himself short. The list had said that the robes were to be plain, and, besides, how much could possibly be done for _robes _to make them look better? He stood quietly on the stool as Madam Malkin slipped a long black robe over his head, quickly and efficiently pinning it to the right length, with a little leeway for possible growth during the year.

He had great experience with fittings and kept perfectly still in order to avoid being poked, and it wasn't long before Madam Malking said, "That's you done, my dear."

Stepping down from the stool, Tristan paid Madam Malkin the cost of the fitting and the robes, and was surprised to get a neat package in return. His robes, Madam Malkin explained at his confused expression, all of them adjusted for him already. Another benefit of working with magic instead of by hand alone, he supposed.

Next was purchasing parchment and quills. As he looked over the different kinds of ink wells, Tristan wondered how hard it would be to get used to writing with a quill. It would be so much easier to simply use a fountain pen. He asked Professor McGonagall about it, and, after recovering from her surprise, she told him that it was just the way Hogwarts worked. As he paid for his purchases, Tristan thought privately that, well, that was just idiotic, wasn't it? And Cabots did not do idiotic things, especially just to conform, so he made a note to himself to stock up on spiral notebooks and pens, both fountain and ball-point. Assignments and such, he would use parchment and quills, but notes were his to take and his to keep, and wasn't worth the extra effort. Plus, the spirals would help keep all the notes from one class together. Organization was the key to efficiency, after all.

Then they went to a shop called Flourish and Blotts, which was a bookstore. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the sizes of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Here, Tristan wandered between the stacks for a bit, to see if there were any books he could read about the wizarding world aside from his school textbooks. He found more than a few that caught his interest, including _Hogwarts: A History_, _The History of the Ministry of Magic_, and other such historical books to add to the pile he was planning to purchase.

In the shop that sold cauldrons, Tristan was amused to find that there was a solid gold one. Just how gaudy did a person have to be, to buy something like that? Tristan had been taught that people with real wealth did not seek to flaunt it - they bought expensive things, yes, but only because they deserved the best, not because they wanted others to see how rich they were. This was also how you could tell new money from old money - new money always put in that telltale effort to show off and prove that they were "just as good." If you were truly better, however, you didn't need to advertise it, because people _knew_.

He purchased the pewter cauldron his list called for, as well as a particularly nice set of scales that didn't seem like they would break easily, and a collapsible brass telescope. Then Professor McGonagall led them to the Apothecary, where upon his mother insisted on waiting outside due to the overpowering smell as Tristan bought a supply of some basic potions ingredients.

"Is that all, then?" Adelaide asked as Professor McGonagall and her son trooped out of the foul smelling Apothecary.

Professor McGonagall smiled faintly, "Just the wand. And an owl, cat, or a toad, if your son would like."

"Why would I need a pet?" Tristan asked, confused. The Cabots had a chateau in France with its own stables, of course, and a few hounds and even hunting birds, but none of their animals were actual pets. Animals, Hugh Cabot insisted, like people, had to be good for something if they wished to be kept. Pets did nothing, and just as Hugh Cabot did not tolerate useless people, neither did he tolerate useless animals.

"Although I'm more of a cat person myself," here, Professor McGonagall smiled, as if enjoying a private secret, "I would recommend you purchase an owl. A toad is all but useless, but owls are what we use to deliver mail."

"Owls?" he repeated in amazement.

Professor McGonagall nodded. "But the school has owls for students to use in the Owlery, if you prefer."

With a glance at his mother, Tristan shrugged slightly, "It can't hurt to look, can it?"

They lingered in Eeylopes Owl Emporium for close to twenty minutes, simply because of Tristan's inability to make up his mind. Originally, he had wanted a Great Hawk Owl. Then he had spotted a larger owl - a Eurasian Eagle Owl - and had been torn. He'd debated between the two male owls to the point where the owls themselves were puffing up and hooting threateningly at each other in an effort to be the one purchased. But then he'd spotted a Snowy Owl so beautiful it had drawn a delighted smile from his mother, even, and that had been that. The three of them trooped out, leaving two despondent male owls behind as Tristan carried out his new owl, fast asleep in her cage, with her head under her wing.

"Now, for your wand, Mr. Cabot, there is only one place to go: Ollivanders," Professor McGonagall said.

A magic wand... Recalling all the tricks the Professor had done in order to convince him and his parents of the existence of magic, all with her wand, Tristan eagerly picked up his pace.

The shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters above the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window display.

A tinkling bell rang as they stepped inside, Tristan with great anticipation, Adelaide with a bit of wariness, and Professor McGonagall with an indulgent smile on her face. It was a tiny place, except for a single, spindly chair that Professor McGonagall cleaned up with a wave of her wand for Tristan's mother to sit on in the meantime. It was very silent and still inside the small shop, and Tristan's excitement quieted and stilled in his heart. It was almost like being in a museum, this, with the hyper awareness of the unusual level of silence.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.

Tristan jumped, and he heard his mother stifle a gasp. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello, and good afternoon to you as well," Tristan replied, recovering swiftly from his shock.

Mr. Ollivander (or so Tristan assumed) moved closer, a furrow slowly appearing between his brows. His eyes became even more sharper, if that was possible, and he tilted his head as if presented with a puzzle that he couldn't quite decipher. Tristan decidedly felt uncomfortable with this regard, so similar to that of Professor McGonagall's during their first meeting, and yet so much more powerful and intense.

To his relief, Mr. Ollivander's eyes slid away and landed on Professor McGonagall, "Minerva McGonagall! How nice it is to see you once more. Lancewood, twelve-and-a-quarter inches, rather elastic, isn't it?"

"Quite correct, Mr. Ollivander," Professor McGonagall replied, seemingly unperturbed by the wand maker's eccentric personality. "And it still continues to serve me well."

That seemed to please him. "Good, good." Mr. Ollivander turned back to Tristan, "I remember every single wand I've sold, you know." He seemed to be proud of the fact, so Tristan tried to smile as if he were impressed. "Well now - you are?"

"Tristan Cabot, sir," he answered promptly.

Mr. Ollivander nodded sagely, as if this had been words of unparalleled wisdom rather than a simple name, "Mr. Cabot. Let me see." He pulled out a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

Wand arm? Uncertainly, Tristan replied, "Well, I'm right-handed, sir, if that's what you mean."

"Hold out your arm - that's it," the old man said. He measured Tristan from shoulder to finger, from wrist to elbow, which almost made sense. Then he measured from shoulder to foot, knee to armpit, then around Tristan's head, which Tristan couldn't see any purpose in at all. As he measured, Mr. Ollivander said, "Every Ollivander wand as a core of powerful magical substance, Mr. Cabot. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are just the same. And, of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

With a start, Tristan realized that the tape measure, currently measuring the distance between nostrils, was doing it quite on its own. Mr. Ollivander was piling long, thin boxes into his arms from the shelves.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure flopped to the ground. "Right then, Mr. Cabot. Try this one. Juniper and phoenix feather, nine inches, quite rigid. Just take it and give it a wave."

Feeling more than a little foolish, Tristan took the offered wand and gamely waved his arm, and started when Mr. Ollivander lunged forward to snatch it away at once.

"Ash and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches, quite bendy."

Tristan took it, raised his arm to give it a wave, and had it snatched right out of his grasp.

"No, no," Mr. Ollivander muttered to himself, digging through the boxes. "Hickory and dragon heartstring, six inches, tough."

No, no, no, and no.

The pile of rejected wands grew as the minutes passed, and each new wand that Mr. Ollivander snatched out of his hand seemed to make the old man happier. Tristan simply stood there, dumbfounded, taking the wands and getting used to the friction of having it whisked away before he knew it. What, exactly, was Mr. Ollivander looking for? Some kind of reaction?

Mr. Ollivander picked up another box, opened it, hesitated, until finally he offered this wand to Tristan, "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple - unusual combination."

A reaction indeed, as Tristan found out the moment he grasped this wand. Warmth filled his fingers, welled up from somewhere inside him, and it was an exhilarating feeling that he couldn't possibly hope to describe. Prompted by an urge that he didn't even realize existed, Tristan raised his arm and brought the wand swishing down through the air - and in its wake, a trail of blue and gold sparks burst out like fireworks.

Professor McGonagall clapped, smiling, and his mother gazed wide-eyed at the sparks, even as Mr. Ollivander cried out his triumph. Tristan paid the seven gold Galleons for his wand, and, shopping all done, the three of them headed back to regular London and the waiting car, back through the Leaky Cauldron.

It wasn't until that night, as Tristan lay in his bed deep in slumber, that the words Mr. Ollivander had muttered to himself while he'd created the sparks came to haunt his dreams.

"Curious...very curious...how very...if anyone, I'd have thought...hmm...curious, indeed..."

* * *

TBC…

**A.N. 2:** The exchange rate between muggle pounds and wizarding money was taken from The Harry Potter Lexicon, which is a site I advise any fanfic writer to visit. It is THE source for any kind of minor or major detail you need for writing a HP fanfic. And if you were really curious, a Galleon would equal less than eight American dollars - crazy, ain't it? A wand, however, costs a little over seventy-one dollars. Ouch.

_Rosie W - _This isn't the first time you've reviewed one of my fics, but it is the first time I'm responding, because most of those fics in question have been one-shots. I've always wanted to say that I appreciate your reviews, for they've always touched me, simply because of how short and succinct they are. :) It is my hope to keep Tristan toeing that delicate line between confident and arrogant, though he will always be something of a spoiled lad. More society-boy than spoiled-boy, though, unlike Draco.

_Birdgirl_ - It is my sincere hope that I won't have to do that. :)

_athenakitty_ - No, the Dursleys will not die. At least, not that I know of, yet. My muse may be keeping secrets from me, though. As for Tristan...just wait and see. :)

_Jarno_ - Oh, yes. Loads different, I'd think. But just the top layer, mostly. However, the core of what makes Harry will still remain, because, otherwise, it really wouldn't be Harry at all, would it?

_rigal_ - I think it was the same story. My old version, that is, which did, indeed, have four very short chapters before I woke up and regained enough senses to erase it.


	4. August and the Hogwarts Express

**Title:** The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One

**Author:** Jade Hunter

**Disclaimer:** The characters and properties of _Harry Potter_ all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end. Bury Lawn school actually is a private school in England, but only the name is really used here.

**A.N.:** Well, I seem to be on a roll. In this chapter, Hagrid finally reports back to Dumbledore, and somehow August speeds by in just a paragraph or two as September rolls around quicker than the Express.

* * *

Rubeus Hagrid was not a happy fellow.

When it had been discovered that Harry Potter was no longer listed in the Book of Names - for he had been present at birth - Professor Dumbledore had sent a letter to the Dursleys, inquiring about the boy in question. There had been no reply and, assuming the letter had been lost or destroyed along the way, the Headmaster had sent another. And another. Until it became quite apparent that the Durlseys, for whatever reason, were choosing not to respond. Thus the Headmaster had assigned his Gamekeeper the task of delivering the letter personally, and getting a reply before returning. Unable to use the Floo due to his great size, unable to apparate due to the fact that he had never learned, and unable to use a portkey due to the fact that the Headmaster hadn't wanted to explain the reason for such a trip to the Ministry, Hagrid had been discreetly authorized by Professor Dumbledore to use magic for this task, and this task alone.

Still, it didn't make flying from Scotland all the way down to Little Whinging any more pleasant - and the situation became doubly unpleasant when he didn't find the Dursleys in their house on Privet Drive. Utilizing a locating spell, he had tracked the family to the Railview Hotel in Cokeworth. He had managed to get the room number from the muggle behind the desk at the hotel easily enough, but by the time he'd gotten to the room in question, the Dursleys had been long gone. Now more than a little annoyed, Hagrid cast another locating spell, following the spell to a forsaken little hut on an island that was more rock than anything else, just as a storm blew in.

As if all of _that_ wasn't enough, it turned out that the stupid muggle family had long abandoned Harry Potter to an orphanage! Imagine – abandoning _Harry Potter_! Merlin only knew what kind of folks had a hold of that boy now! Furious, Hagrid had attempted to transfigure their whale of a son into a pig, but that had only resulted in the tail, and had not erased the fact that he, Hagrid, would be the one who would have to break the news to Albus Dumbledore.

Wishing desperately that he'd had a chance to stop by the Leaky Cauldron for some liquid courage, Hagrid knocked on the door to the Headmaster's office.

* * *

August sped by in a blur for Tristan.

Not only had his schedule been filled with the usual activities - socializing (at various parties and at the Country Club) and going to his lessons (in art, piano, and dancing – because, apparently, a well-rounded boy became a great man) - but he was now preoccupied with arranging for his education over the coming summers and learning more about the wizarding world.

Tristan was no fool, and knew that ignorance was always one's worst enemy, especially in an environment one knew nothing about. Thus, he read through all the different books he'd purchased carefully. _Hogwarts: A History _was interesting enough, but it was the historical books about the wizarding world in general that he found most interesting. All the numerous so-called 'Dark Lords' throughout history intrigued him, especially when he considered their goals. Some of them were simply power mad, others just corrupt lunatics on rampages, but there was one particular issue that emerged several times. Apparently, some people in the wizarding world thought that normal people - that is, non-magical people - were somehow inferior to magical people. Not only that, but magical children born to non-magical parents were also inferior to magical children born from magical parents. There had been many crusades to 'purge' the wizarding world and 'restore' purity of blood, and two of the most notable names were Grindelwald and Voldemort. Tristan was interested to note that Grindelwald's reign, as it was named, took place at around the same time as World War II - and was unpleasantly surprised by how recent the reign of this Voldemort had been.

It was interesting to note that race had never been a factor of bigotry in the wizarding world, but blood...that seemed to be a big contender. Also interesting to note was how they seemed to view the normal world and its technological accomplishments - at best, the wizards marveled at what the 'muggles' had come up with to 'compensate' for their inability to do magic; at worst, they were scornful of technology, and ignored it entirely. In Tristan's opinion (admittedly biased as they were), these people had no real reason they should be so condescending towards regular people. Calling someone on the telephone seemed a lot easier than this...fire-calling that wizards did, for one. And they didn't even have televisions, and had only one major sport (this Quidditch did sound somewhat interesting, flying on broomsticks), one radio station, and only one major newspaper (_The Daily Prophet_, though there were a few minor newspapers, and a few tabloids). And they thought that normal people were primitive? How could there be so little creativity in an entire society?

The normal world had many different types of major sports, dozens upon dozens of radio stations, hundreds of major newspapers all around the world. Art, too, seemed to be kept to the standard portraits and landscapes in the wizarding world, with none of the different concepts and fads that had marked the artistic society of the 'muggle' world. The book on the Ministry of Magic and its history increased his conviction that, despite all the amazing things magic could do, it still didn't mean the magical world was better than the normal one. If anything, these wizards seemed to be crippled by their ability to do magic. The way their government was run was unbelievable - the Minister of Magic was voted in by the Wizengamot, but the members of the Wizengamot were placed in their position at the recommendation of the Minister - the people didn't seem to have a say in anything! He wasn't naive enough to believe for a minute that wizards and witches were any bit less prone to corruption than normal people.

He freely shared these books and his thoughts with his parents, and the politics of the wizarding world joined the weekly discussions of the politics of the normal world each Sunday night over dinner. The potential dangers of tyranny and dictatorship and human nature were debated thoroughly, as were the various laws and their intended effects, their actual effects, and how they were received by the people.

Tristan also made sure to spend a good portion of every day with his owl, whom he had named Hedwig, after Hedwig of Poland. He knew from experience with their hunting birds in their villa estate that a close bond of trust had to be cultivated, and made sure to treat Hedwig well. It was surprising how intelligent the owl was - he knew that animals were far smarter than what most humans gave credit for, but Hedwig seemed to go above and beyond all of that. He didn't know if it was because she was from the magical world or if it was just the way she was, but Tristan appreciated it nonetheless. She seemed to like having free run of the considerably large Cabot estate and the freedom to come and go as she wished, but always chose to come back to his room to sleep.

On the last day of August, a dark screech owl dropped off a letter from Professor McGonagall, beating a hasty retreat after an unfriendly reception from a territorial Hedwig. As the snowy owl smugly began to preen herself, Tristan ripped open the letter and read:

_Dear Mr. Cabot,_

_To get to Hogwarts, all you need to do is find your way to King's Cross Station on the 1st of September. You can board the Hogwarts Express from platform nine and three-quarters, which can be found by walking through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. The Express will leave for Hogwarts at precisely eleven o'clock._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

* * *

Tristan woke at five o'clock on the morning of September 1st to the shrill ring of his alarm clock. It took a moment for him to remember why he had set the alarm so early; he sprang out of bed, took a quick shower, and changed out of his pyjamas and into a pair of jeans and a plain black shirt. If his mother could see him, she would have prompted him to change into something more formal, but Tristan knew that his parents would not wake before he left, so he could wear whatever he wished. Shoving his feet into his sneakers at the same time as he put his arms through a dark green sweater, Tristan hobbled out into the sitting room portion of his quarters, eyes automatically landing on the large trunk that sat near the door. He had packed and double-checked everything last night - nonetheless, he was just looking through the Hogwarts list yet again when the knock came.

It was the maid; "Sir, your breakfast is waiting."

"I'll be right down - tell a few of the others take Hedwig and my trunk to the entrance hall, please," Tristan called through the door, and faintly heard the maid murmur an agreement before he gazed around again.

It was new, this feeling of nervous anticipation that welled within him, and it was...interesting. All his life, he had known exactly what was going to happen to him. Bury Lawn for his primary education, Eton for his secondary, Oxford for his university studies, then came marriage with the proper girl, taking over the company, and finally producing an heir. That was what his father had done, and his father's father, and so forth.

No Cabot had ever gone to...Hogwarts.

He, Tristan, was the first - and it was probably the first time he'd ever felt such terror. He had grown up regaled with tales of what his future schooling was going to be like and suddenly, none of those tales held true anymore. He was stepping into a strange world with no prior experience, without knowing anyone except Professor McGonagall, and it was nerve-wracking.

Tristan took a deep breath to quell the nauseous feeling within.

He was a Cabot - he could do this.

Nonetheless, the hearty breakfast the cook had whipped up barely registered with him, and before he knew it, it was six o'clock and he was in the backseat of one of the cars. Andrew was driving him today, because Marcus had the day off. It was a long drive to King's Cross Station - a little over four hours - but Tristan remembered nothing of it.

All too soon, it was a quarter past ten and Andrew was loading his trunk onto a cart.

"I can go alone from here," Tristan said, in what he hoped was an offhand tone. "You'd best start back, it's a long drive."

"Are you sure, sir?"

He nodded, even though he wasn't sure at all, because he knew that Andrew couldn't see him all the way to platform nine and three-quarters. "Yes, I'll be fine."

Above all things, it had been drilled into him that one of the most important thing for someone of his stature to refrain from doing was to look weak in front of his own employees; and so Tristan put Hedwig's cage on top of his trunk and pushed on with feigned confidence keeping his shoulders straight. He was intensely aware of the stares he drew - or, rather, the stares Hedwig drew with her presence alone - but clenched his jaw and ignored it, drawing a purposeful air around him. In his experience, looking like one had something important to do was a surefire way to keep people from approaching and asking questions.

Once at the barrier between platforms nine and ten, Tristan hesitated, gazing at what certainly looked very solid, no matter what Professor McGonagall said in her letter. He wheeled the cart up very close, pretending that he was simply another person waiting for their train to arrive, and discreetly tried to poke the barrier with a finger behind his back.

No matter how far he pushed, his hand did not meet wall.

Turning sideways so he could see the barrier from the corner of his left eye, Tristan tried to poke the barrier again - and this time, saw as his hand disappeared through what was supposedly solid wall. He pressed his lips together in order to keep his jaw from hanging open, maneuvered his cart around, and pushed through the barrier, noticing at the last second that, the moment he aligned himself in front of the barrier, everyone's eyes seemed to slide away from him.

And then he was on a large platform, looking at a scarlet steam engine. A sign above said Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock, and when he twisted around to look at the barrier he'd come through, he saw a wrought-iron archway there, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. The number of people on the platform was quite moderate, as it wasn't even half past ten. Tristan stepped over a cat trying to rub up against his legs and pushed his cart down the platform towards the middle of the train. None of the carriages seemed full, but he didn't want to sit up front or in the back. He passed a girl and half jumped out of his skin when she suddenly shrieked and ran with arms flailing to wrap them around another girl, who had screamed just as shrilly as they reunited.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Tristan chose a compartment further down the line. He moved Hedwig inside first, then contemplated the problem of the trunk. Andrew had been able to lift it by himself, but Tristan had no delusions about his own ability to do the same. With a sigh, he lined up the cart as close as he could get it to the train and, taking hold of one end, he dragged the corner onto the first step. But the cart began to roll back, and the trunk landed on the platform with a thud, Tristan choosing to let go in favor of possibly losing a layer of skin from his palm.

"Need a hand?" It was a tall boy with gray eyes that asked, swooping up the other end of the trunk without even waiting for an answer.

Tristan nodded anyway, and with the obviously older boy's help, managed to get his trunk tucked away in the corner of the compartment.

"Thank you," he said to the older boy, holding out a hand. "Tristan Cabot, first year student, which was probably quite obvious."

"A little," the boy replied, smiling in a good-natured fashion. "Cedric Diggory, a fourth year who remembers all too well what it was like being a first year. At least my mother was here to cast a levitating charm for me when I was your age."

"Your parents are, ah, magical, then?" Tristan asked.

Cedric nodded, "And you're a muggleborn?"

The term 'muggle' sounded no less derogatory now than when he'd first heard it, but Tristan ignored that and simply nodded.

"Well, no worries, there are always loads of muggleborns in each year - no one's really ahead of anyone just by being from a wizarding family," Cedric said genially.

Truth be told, Tristan really hadn't been all that worried about it. He'd assumed as much, since no decent school system would have it any other way. But Cedric was trying to be helpful, so Tristan nodded and thanked the older student again.

"No problem," was the other boy's answer, before he excused himself.

Tristan was understanding, of course, and shook his head a bit when he was alone in the compartment. Unlocking the combination lock that he had placed on his trunk to safeguard the contents, Tristan pulled out his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and settled back in the otherwise empty carriage, sitting sideways, leaning against the window and stretching out his legs to take up the entire bench seat. His English professor for the next few summers had given him a list of books to read over the year, so that they could discuss and analyze the books over the summer sessions and not waste any time - time that they didn't have, if Tristan truly wished to squeeze in a year's worth of studies into two-and-a-half months.

A few chapters in, Tristan was interrupted by a blur passing right next to the window, which he caught only out of the corner of his eye. After he got over the minor heart attack he'd suffered, Tristan realized that the platform was now completely packed, and the corridor as well. He could hear snatches of conversations as whole troupes passed:

" – a _giant _tarantula – "

" – saw it; it's _huge_!"

" – it's been _so_ long - "

" – how was your summer – "

It was intrusive, due to the fact that once he was made aware of the noise, he could not completely forget it. Nevertheless, Tristan valiantly made an effort to read again - only to be interrupted once more, this time by the door of his carriage sliding open.

It was an old woman, dressed in the most atrocious outfit Tristan had ever seen - including Halloween costumes. The green robes by themselves would have been all right, but she also wore a fox-fur scarf, a hat topped with a stuffed vulture, and carried a large red handbag. Despite her clothing, however, there was a formidable set to her shoulders and a great amount of dignity in the way she carried herself that had him scrambling up onto his feet.

"Good morning, young man," she said in a clipped, business-like tone.

Shoulders straight, feet together, and chin up, Tristan inclined his head and said politely, "Good morning to you as well, Mrs...?"

"Longbottom," the old woman replied, and turned to address someone behind her. "You see, Neville, this is how a proper young man should hold himself. He was reading, too." And then Mrs. Longbottom turned back to him, "And you are...?"

"Tristan Cabot, ma'am," he replied.

She nodded, "Well, Mr. Cabot, my grandson needs a place to sit."

"Plenty of room here, ma'am," Tristan said instantly, knowing it was expected of him. "He's more than welcome."

"Good. Thank you," Mrs. Longbottom responded, her tone implying that she hadn't expected anything less, and turned to address the Neville person behind her, who Tristan assumed was the grandson in question. "Neville, you now have a seat. Put your trunk in here, and try not to lose Trevor again. It is always inconvenient and embarrassing when you have to summon something in such a crowded place - not to mention dangerous."

This time, Tristan heard a reply, a mumbled, "Yes, Gran."

"Well, I'll leave you boys alone to get acquainted," Mrs. Longbottom said, and nodded at Tristan. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cabot."

"The pleasure was all mine, ma'am," he responded automatically, inclining his head again.

She turned back to her grandson, "Goodbye, Neville. I hope you do well in your studies."

"I will, Gran," came the response. "Bye."

And then she was gone, clomping in all her formidable glory down the corridor, and the boy named Neville stuck his head in. He was round-faced, and had the uncertain sort of air to him that had Tristan pegging him instantly as someone who had been walked on for most of his life.

"Hullo," Neville said and added unnecessarily, "I'm Neville Longbottom."

"Tristan Cabot," he replied, resuming his previous position and opening the book again.

That would have been that, except Neville lingered at the doorway for a while, shifting uneasily until Tristan looked up, eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"If you don't want me to sit here, it's okay," Neville said in a sort of rushed tone. "I know Gran can sometimes be a little pushy..."

Tristan shrugged, "She wasn't that bad. Take a seat, it doesn't matter to me."

With a quiet word of thanks, Neville came in and slid the door to the carriage closed, sitting down on the opposite side of the opposite bench, as if trying to get as far away from Tristan as possible. Tristan took note of it but said nothing, keeping his eyes on his book. It wasn't long before the train began to move, houses flashing by and the platform being left long behind, but still the compartment was filled with utter silence, one boy looking out the window watching the fields and lanes flick by, the other reading. The rattling didn't bother Tristan at all; he was one of those people who could read in vehicles without suffering from headaches or motion sickness.

Around half past twelve, there was a great amount of noise outside in the corridor. A smiling, dimpled woman slid back the compartment door and asked, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Tristan, whose six o'clock breakfast was long gone and forgotten, immediately got up to view the selection. He was only mildly surprised to see that the wizarding world had their own kind of candy - there was Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things. There were a few things that Tristan decided at once that he would never put in his mouth, but most of the selections seemed interesting, so he got a little bit of each, paying with a galleon.

Neville bought a few pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes, but no candy, and as the woman closed their door and clattered past, the sounds of wrapping paper wrinkling filled the carriage. The two of them ate in silence, making their way slowly but surely through the pasties and cakes, until Neville was dusting off his fingers and Tristan was examining the candy pile.

"You might want to watch the Every Flavor Beans," Neville volunteered. "There really is every flavor, even ones that taste like liver and onions, or moldy cheese. Once, I had one that tasted like steamed cabbages."

"Ugh," Tristan replied, making a face. "Thanks for the warning." He dropped the box of beans and picked up a Chocolate Frog. "What about these - anything wrong with them?"

Neville shook his head, "They're just regular chocolate. They've got charms on them, though, to make them hop around a little. And they come with cards of famous wizards and witches that you can collect. Some are really rare, like Agrippa and Ptolemy, and there are folks who'd pay good money for those."

"Huh," he said, and unwrapped the Chocolate Frog.

It did jump and move, but settled down after a little while, upon which Tristan deemed it safe enough to eat. All the moving around aside, they really were just like regular chocolate. Tristan picked up the card; it showed an aged man who wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and had a flowing silver hair, beard, and moustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

So _this_ was Dumbledore. Several of Tristan's books had mentioned him, had gone on and on about his brilliance and greatness, but none of them had pictures. He turned the card over and read:

_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

_Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts_

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._

Tristan smirked a bit; the last bit made the whole thing sound like an ad for some love match service. He turned the card over to look at the picture once more, and stared.

"Uh, Neville," he said slowly, and held up the card so that Neville could see the empty box where a picture was supposed to be. "Is it just me, or is there no picture where there once was a picture? Because there was a picture here, I swear it, there was, but now there is no picture."

Neville actually cracked a smile, "In the wizarding world, people move around in their photos."

"Neat." Deciding to thank Neville for all his explanations, but not wanting to actually thank him verbally (although he had thanked a lot of people today, it was different when the bloke was the same age as you), Tristan tossed him a Chocolate Frog. "Here, have one."

Neville fumbled for it and stammered out his thanks.

"No problem. You can have more, if you want, I've got plenty," Tristan shrugged. It was no big deal.

They made their way through Tristan's pile of Chocolate Frogs, Neville never actually taking one, making Tristan resort to tossing him one every few minutes. He turned a deaf ear to both the thanks and the protests, simply waving them away, and ate frog after frog, adding card after card to his pile. There was Morgana, Paracelsus, Alberic Grunnion, Merlin, Cliodna, and many more. Tristan wasn't much interested in starting up a collection - it seemed like a stupid idea to him - but kept the cards anyway, tucking them into his back pocket when the frogs ran out.

"Um," Neville said, bringing Tristan out of his intense internal debate as to whether or not he should brave the Every Flavor Beans, "is that your owl?"

"Yes, her name is Hedwig," he replied, following Neville's line of sight to his owl, who began to preen at the attention.

Neville smiled a little at that, "She's very beautiful."

"It's why I bought her," Tristan said simply.

"I have a toad," Neville mentioned, digging in a pocket. "His name is Trevor, and - oh no!" Suddenly, Neville looked absolutely crushed. "He's gone! Trevor's gone!"

Recalling Mrs. Longbottom's words from her lecture before she left, Tristan gathered that this Trevor got lost mighty easily. "I'm sure he'll turn up."

"He's just a toad! I don't understand how he keeps doing this!" Neville wailed, standing up and emptying all his pockets. He then looked around the carriage, but Trevor was nowhere to be found, and, looking utterly miserable, he declared, "I'm going to find him."

"Good luck," Tristan called out after Neville as the distraught boy stepped out of the carriage, closing the door behind him.

He turned back to the box of Every Flavor Beans. The thought of helping Neville find his toad didn't even occur to him - Neville hadn't asked for help, and, in the society Tristan was raised in, one never offered help when it wasn't asked for. Pride was powerful and constant in their lives, and while asking for help was a harsh blow, being offered help without prompting was an even bigger blow, because it meant that everyone knew about personal matters. And while everyone might know anyway, the polite thing to do was to pretend not to know, so the person in question could, at the very least, save face and keep their dignity.

After a long moment of turning over the box in his hands, Tristan tossed it aside and picked up _To Kill a Mockingbird_ once more. The writings of Harper Lee seemed far more appealing than possibly eating a haggis flavored bean. As the countryside scenery outside the window began to change into wild woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills, Tristan let himself get absorbed in the tale.

The door slid open again, and a girl was saying, "Sorry, Neville, I don't know how a toad could have just disappeared like that - oh, who're you?"

He looked up from the book to see a girl with busy hair staring expectantly at him, Neville standing next to her forlornly. She was, he noticed, already wearing her Hogwarts school robes.

"Tristan Cabot," he said finally.

She had been rude, of course, by demanding to know who he was in that brusque tone of hers, but that didn't mean that he had to be rude in return.

"Any relation to Hugh Cabot of Cabot Enterprises?" the girl asked, her tone still bossy, but now ringing with a tone of interest.

He raised a brow. This girl knew about Cabot Enterprises? People outside their society rarely knew their names, because the average person couldn't be bothered with knowing things that didn't pertain to their own private little lives. "That would be my father."

"Really?" she sounded awfully interested now, and actually came in to sit down next to him. "That must be exciting. I keep up with the stocks, you know, and the business section of the newspaper, and your father's company seems to be doing quite well now, isn't it?"

"It always does relatively well," Tristan replied in a clipped tone. He had given her his name, but she was being rude by not offering hers in return. "And you are?"

"Oh, I'm Hermione Granger," the girl said absently, and plunged right back to, "I didn't know Cabots were magical."

He bristled at the implications - that the company only did so well because of magic. "I'm the first, actually."

The hostile tone seemed to wash right over the girl, this Hermione Granger. "Really? Me too! My parents are both dentists, and it was a right surprise for all of us, but we were all terribly pleased, of course. Hogwarts is the best school there is, or so I've heard - I've learned all the course books by heart, you know, I just hope it'll be enough and - is that _To Kill a Mockingbird_?"

Amazed that she had said all of that in one go, and that she had actually learned the course books by heart, Tristan just nodded and held up the book so she could see the cover. "Yes."

"So you're a reader, too, then?" Hermione asked, and looked quite delighted by the fact, her tone becoming twice as eager as before. "Have you done any background reading on the wizarding world? I've read _Modern Magical History_, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_, as well as _Hogwarts: A History_."

"Yes, actually, some," Tristan replied, taken aback. She seemed to be waiting for a list, so he added, "I've read _Hogwarts: A History_ as well, along with _The Life and Times of the Wizarding World_, _The History of the Ministry of Magic_, and _Modern Politics and Policies_."

Hermione seemed to notice the immediate difference between their subjects of interest as well. While she had focused on all she could learn about the wizarding world's history, undoubtedly to know as much as the others did, Tristan had largely concentrated his efforts into understanding the workings of the wizarding world to minimize the culture shock he was sure to experience.

"Did you find those books informative? Perhaps I could borrow them from you," she asked. "I could lend you the ones I've read - I brought them all with me."

Saving his place by folding in the page he was on (and ignoring her scandalized look), Tristan resigned himself to entertaining this girl with conversation until she felt like leaving.

"You probably should read them. I found them very informative, especially all the differences between our culture and theirs," he said offhandedly.

"There are so many amazing things, aren't there?" Hermione agreed.

He shrugged, "That, too. And some less attractive points as well. It's to be expected, of course, since no society is virtually perfect."

She and Neville both seemed a little taken aback - Hermione because he had not gushed about the wonders of the wizarding world with her, and Neville because this was the first muggleborn he'd ever heard of being so casual about things.

"Er, well, do either of you know what House you'll be in?" Hermione said finally, including Neville in the conversation as well. "I've been asking around, and I hope I'll be in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I heard Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad..."

She trailed off expectantly, whereupon Neville said glumly, "I expect I'll get Hufflepuff. Not that it's a bad House, mind you, it's just my father was in Gryffindor, and everyone's always comparing me to him."

Before Hermione could make soft, sympathetic noises to go with the soft, sympathetic face she was wearing, Tristan (who was also expected to follow in his father's footsteps and found no reason for being so down about it) interjected, "I doubt it would matter what we expect, since the matter of sorting seems to be a tightly kept secret. No one will know until we get there and get sorted, so why bother hypothesizing?"

"I suppose you're right," Neville replied, just before Hermione could open her mouth to argue. "There's no point in worrying about the inevitable."

Tristan simply shrugged, even as Hermione started to lecture Neville about not thinking so badly of himself. He was amused to note, however, that the stern tone she was using was quite similar to Mrs. Longbottom's lecturing tone - and even more amused to note that Neville seemed to have noticed, too.

He decided to save Neville, "It's getting dark. Is the train slowing down?"

Hermione paused for breath, and looked thoughtful, "I think so. You'd best get into your robes, then shouldn't you? I'll need to get back to my carriage, too."

It was with no little feeling of relief that Tristan closed the door behind her; she really was amazingly intrusive, wasn't she? Opening the lid of his trunk, Tristan tossed in the book and pulled out one of his black robes, shrugging off his green sweater and placing that inside before locking the trunk. Neville was quietly gathering all of the trash into a tidy little pile, already having slipped on his robes; after Tristan pulled on his robes, he picked up the abandoned box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and slipped them in his pocket.

A voice echoed through the train, "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Neville slid open the carriage door and they joined the throng outside. The train slowed right down and finally stopped, making a few of the people stumble. People pushed their way towards the nearest door, and Tristan was dragged along with the crowd, finding himself stepping onto a small, dark platform. He breathed in the crisp night air and thought idly that he probably should have kept the sweater on.

Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Tristan heard a loud, coarse voice saying, "First years! First years, over here!"

The source of the voice was a gigantic fellow, who had to be at least twice as tall as a normal man and possibly five times as wide. And not only was he too big to believe, he also had a wild sort of look to him, with a great long tangles of bushy black hair and beard that hid most of his face. In the night, with only the light of the lamp in his gargantuan hand, he looked ten times as terrifying as he probably would have in daylight.

"C'mon, follow me - any more first years? Mind your step now, follow me!" he said boisterously, leading them into the dark.

Tristan hesitated to go with the large, feral-looking man who might or might not be a serial killer, but there didn't seem to be anywhere else to go. All the older kids had gone off somewhere on their own, and it was just people around his age that were milling around. And so, slipping and stumbling, they followed the man with the lamp down a steep, narrow path. It was pitch black and nobody spoke much; Tristan thought he heard Neville sniff once or twice, but that was all.

"You'll get your first sight of Hogwarts in a sec," the man called over his shoulder. "Just around this bend, here."

There was a loud, "Oooh!"

Even Tristan couldn't help but be impressed. The Cabot estates, their villa in the countryside, their chateau in France, their vacation homes dotted across the globe - none of it compared to this, his first sight of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake, and across the way, perched high atop a mountain, was an honest to goodness castle in perfect condition, with towers and turrets and all, windows sparkling in the starry sky.

"No more than four in a boat!"

The large man's booming voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and Tristan climbed into one of the tiny boats that lined the edge of the lake. Neville clambered in with him, as well as that Hermione girl, and a redheaded boy that Tristan didn't know.

"Everybody in?"shouted the large man, who had an entire boat to himself. "Right then - FORWARD!"

The fleet of little boats moved as one, gliding across the lake which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, gaping up at the castle as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!"

They all bent their heads, and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached some kind of underground harbor where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles. The large man hung behind to check the boats as everyone piled out.

"Oy! Who's lost a toad?" he bellowed.

Neville brightened at once, "Trevor!"

He went fearlessly up to the giant of a man, holding out his hands, and came back with a blissful expression on his face. Then they all clambered up a passageway in the rock, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door. The large man raised a huge, meaty fist and banged three times on the castle door.

* * *

TBC…

**A.N. 2:** Hedwig of Poland was, again, a real person. Also known as Saint Hedwig, she ruled Poland from 1384 to 1399. She was ten when she ascended to the throne as King - to distinguish the fact that she _was_ the ruling monarch and not just a queen consort. She, of course, gave up that title to her husband when she got married, and died giving childbirth. Although she probably had very little actual power as monarch, she nonetheless was very actively involved in her kingdom's political, diplomatic, and cultural life, and also gave much of her wealth to charity, including her own jewelry, dresses, and even her royal insignia.

Heh, the main thing people asked me was:

_**Q: When will they find out Tristan is Harry?**_

_A: Not for quite some time. It definitely will not be revealed by the Sorting Hat, nor will Dumbledore automatically know._

_athenakitty - _Erm, no. Adelaide does not like wizarding fashion at all - after all, it only consists of robes, and some people don't even wear anything underneath - yuck! One point I'm glad they didn't go with for the movies. As for the other questions...they will be answered sometime in the story. :)

_siriouslysexysirius_ - No ships, at least, not at this particular stage. They are only eleven, after all, and it would be squicky beyond anything to do that now.

_Carolina_ - Shut up! ;) Lol, you and I think far too much alike for it to be safe. We must maintain a distance of four webpages at all times for life to continue on as normal.


	5. The Sorting Hat

**Title:** The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One

**Author:** Jade Hunter

**Disclaimer:** The characters and properties of _Harry Potter_ all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end.

**A.N.: **Sorry I took so long with this chapter. Two reasons for this. One, the Sorting took some time for me. I knew which House I wanted to have Tristan/Harry in, and I knew how to have him get in there, but the scene just wouldn't mesh down on screen well. Sigh. Two, spring quarter started, and my writing class is a killer, although the adolescent development psychology class is surprisingly interesting.

* * *

The door swung open at once. It was Professor McGonagall, clad in emerald-green robes. She was just as composed as he remembered her, but with a sterner cast to her features than before, and Tristan knew immediately that, here at school, she was not someone to be crossed.

"The first years, Professor McGonagall," the large man said.

Professor McGonagall nodded shortly, "Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

The entrance hall that lay behind the door was large - so large and grand that Tristan couldn't even make out the ceiling. The stone walls were lined with lit torches akin to those at Gringotts, and there was a magnificent marble staircase facing them that led to the upper floors. Mouths agape, they followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor and into a small, empty chamber off the hall.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said. "The start-of-term banquet shall begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be Sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room." Professor McGonagall paused to see if they were paying attention, then continued, "The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House as its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule-breaking will lose House points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours." Another pause, and another sweeping glance, "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on a few students who were suffering from grooming mishaps, including Neville, whose cloak fastening had somehow moved around to under his left ear.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," Professor McGonagall finished. "Please wait quietly."

She swept out of the chamber, and, immediately, there was some desperate scrambling to clean up appearances. Neville yanked his cloak back into place, nearly choking himself in the process, and a dark-haired girl began wiping desperately at a patch of mud that had collected on her cloak when she'd slipped on the way to the boats.

Tristan looked around the small room, confident that his own grooming was immaculate. A few people broke out into whispers, and he couldn't help but overhear snatches of conversation.

"Does anyone know exactly how they Sort you?" someone asked quietly from behind him.

Another unfamiliar voice answered, "Some sort of test, I think. My brother said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Due to the size of the room, the voices had carried, and now nearly everyone was looking terrified, bemoaning that they were woefully unprepared for a _test_! Neville, in particular, looked nervous, and Tristan saw the Hermione girl whispering rapidly to herself about which spell she would need for the test. There were a few people who looked unconvinced, however, and Tristan was glad there was _some_ sensibility in the wizarding world after all. Honestly! Who in the world was gullible enough to believe that a school - an institute of education, mind - would make first years take tests? When some of them hadn't even known about magic before receiving their letters? Utterly ridiculous.

Someone screamed suddenly, and Tristan nearly jumped out of his skin twice - once at the scream, and then at what had caused the scream.

"What the - ?"

Several people gasped. About twenty ghosts had streamed through the back wall, pearly-white and transparent, gliding across the room with hardly a glance at the gathered first years. They seemed to be arguing amongst themselves, and someone who used to be a fat little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance – "

"My dear friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name, you know, he's not even really a ghost - I say, what are you all doing here?" asked the ghost wearing a ruff and tights, interrupting himself.

No one answered.

"New students!" said the friar, smiling around at them, seemingly oblivious to the air of nervous terror. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

A few heads bobbed faintly.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" the friar said. "My old House, you know."

"Move along now. The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

Although he would never admit it, even under pain of death, Tristan was enormously glad to hear Professor McGonagall's sharp, ringing voice once more. He had read about the ghosts at Hogwarts, of course, but reading about them and actually seeing them were far different things.

He swallowed. Very different.

As the ghosts floated away through the wall opposite that of their entry, Professor McGonagall began to speak again, "Now, form a line, and follow me."

Trying in vain to shake off the shock of seeing the ghosts, Tristan got into the line behind a sandy-haired boy. Professor McGonagall led them out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into what was undoubtedly the Great Hall. Thousands upon thousands of candles lit the room, floating in the air above four long tables, where the older students were already sitting. Each person had a golden plate in front of them, along with matching goblets and cutlery. And at the front of the Hall, there was a long table that seated the people Tristan assumed were the Hogwarts professors.

Professor McGonagall led the line up there, so that they came to a halt facing all the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces stared at them unabashedly, their faces flickering with candlelight, and the ghosts dotted here and there amongst them glowed misty silver. Completely unperturbed with the stares aside from the fact that it was utterly rude, Tristan let his gaze roam over the Hall, comparing the things he saw to what he had read in _Hogwarts: A History_. The ceiling, in particular, was impressive, far more so than he had expected from the book; velvety black with stars glinting here and there, it was hard to believe that the Great Hall didn't simply open up onto the heavens - which was understandable, as it was a mirror of the sky outside, if he remembered correctly.

As if to assure him that he was, in fact, remembering correctly, he heard the Hermione girl whisper to someone, "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_."

Silently, Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of them, and, on top of the stool, she placed a pointed wizard's hat. To Tristan, who did not even like to think about the fact that a wizard's hat was part of his uniform, this particular hat looked ten times as foul. It was frayed and patched, and certainly nothing that the maid would allow in the house.

Then the hat twitched. On its own. As Tristan goggled, forgetting himself for a moment (even a Cabot could only take so much), a rip opened near the brim, like a mouth - and then, even more unbelievably, the hat began to sing:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
__But don't judge on what you see,  
__I'll eat myself if you can find  
__A smarter hat than me.  
__You can keep your bowlers black,  
__Your top hats sleek and tall,  
__For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
__And I can cap them all.  
__There's nothing hidden in your head  
__The Sorting Hat can't see,  
__So try me on and I will tell you  
__Where you ought to be.  
__You might belong in Gryffindor,  
__Where dwell the brave at heart,  
__Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
__Set Gryffindors apart;  
__You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
__Where they are just and loyal,  
__Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,  
__And unafraid of toil;  
__Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
__If you've a ready mind,  
__Where those of wit and learning,  
__Will always find their kind;  
__Or perhaps in Slytherin,  
__You'll make your real friends,  
__Those cunning folk use any means  
__To achieve their ends.  
__So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
__And don't get in a flap!  
__You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
__For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The whole hall burst into applause when the Hat finished its song; it bowed low to each of the four tables, and then became quite still again.

For his part, Tristan was having difficulty getting past the fact that the Hat had just been singing. In rhyme. A hat. Singing. Rhyming. He blinked slowly, took a deep breath, and pushed it out of his mind. He could get past the singing, rhyming, talking, moving-on-its-own hat.

At least now he knew how people were Sorted. Although the book had been enthusiastic in describing the various Houses, it had remained frustratingly tight-lipped about the Sorting process. It seemed a bit anti-climatic, since all you had to do was try on the hat.

Then again, it _was _a singing, rhyming, talking, moving-on-its-own hat.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a roll of parchment; "When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and put on the hat to be Sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat. A moment's pause –

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat shouted.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went over to sit at their table.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

And Susan went to sit down next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The second table from the left clapped this time, and Tristan saw several of the Ravenclaws stand up to shake hands with Terry when he joined them.

"Brocklehurst, Mandy" went into Ravenclaw as well, but "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor. The table at the far left exploded with cheers, and a pair of redheaded twins were even catcalling. "Bulstrode, Millicent" became a Slytherin, and went over to the second table from the right.

And then – "Cabot, Tristan!"

Steeling himself, he walked calmly up to the stool. Picking up the hat, he sat down before lowering it onto his head, closing his eyes as he did so, wondering if all the people who had put it on before him had washed their hair today. He shuddered at the possibilities, what with how battered and ratty the Hat already was.

And then a little voice said quite indignantly,"Why, I'll have you know, I'm quite clean!"

This time, he did not jump; he merely stiffened in surprise.

"Old I may be, but you shouldn't judge by appearances!" the small voice continued, and it wasn't difficult to figure out that it was the Hat talking. "Didn't you hear a word of my song?"

'_I heard,' _Tristan replied as calmly as he could as another part of his mind shied away like a skittish colt at the thought of a telepathic Hat that talked and sang and rhymed and moved on its own. _'But if you can look into everyone's head, you should know that people always judge by appearances, even when they're not aware of it. Besides, I have a right to be concerned - what if I contract lice because of you?'_

"Lice!" the Hat spluttered. "Well, I never – !"

'_You'd be surprised by how many people aren't as hygienic as they appear to be,'_ he commented idly, not at all concerned that he'd offended the Hat. Talking hat or no, it really was just a _hat_.

"_Just_ a hat, eh?"

'_Well, aren't you? At any rate, let's get on with this, shall we? I would like to be put in Ravenclaw.'_

The Hat spluttered again,"Don't you know that_ I'm_ supposed to Sort _you_? You don't get to decide!"

'_Who says?'_

"Tradition!" the Hat said promptly. "I am the Sorting Hat, and I am the one who Sorts. Now, let me see, here..."

Tristan tried to suppress his impatience, _'I told you - Ravenclaw.'_

The Hat made an exasperated noise, "Why Ravenclaw?"

'_Because it is the only sensible House,' _Tristan replied. _'And the only House I can explain to my parents. Can you imagine their reactions when I tell them I've been placed in a House due to my personality traits? Perhaps wizards are open to this kind of thing, but my parents only understand achievement - it wouldn't do for their perfect little boy to be in any House but the one for the most intelligent, would it?'_

"Ravenclaw does not hold the most intelligent students," the Hat protested. "They hold the students who prize knowledge."

'_Yes, well, you don't think I'll tell them that, do you?'_ Tristan asked impatiently. For a Hat who could read thoughts, this one didn't seem to get it at all.

"Oh, I _get_ it, Mr. Cabot. I don't even have to look deeper into your mind - your entire plan for deceiving your parents and playing to their assumptions just screams Slytherin. You'd do very well there, I'd wager," the Hat whispered.

'_I don't think so, hat,'_ Tristan retorted. _'I won't do well in any other House but Ravenclaw. And besides, who says I don't prize knowledge?'_

"But only for what it can do for you, for the advantage it gives you," the Hat said in reply. "Not for the sake of knowledge itself."

Tristan was about to retaliate when the absolute ridiculousness of the situation hit him. Here he was, on a stool in front of everyone, arguing with a bloody _hat_, of all things. _'I wasn't aware there were conditions set. At any rate, I repeat: I will not do well in any other House but Ravenclaw. In fact, I can guarantee it. Maybe this makes me suitable for Slytherin, and maybe not, but I do believe it will be Ravenclaw or nothing.'_

He'd read the laws. There was nothing that said a student absolutely had to continue their magical education if they weren't going to contribute to the magical world after graduation. He could just as easily have his magic bound and go on to Eton and get a normal education.

"Well, you're right about that," the Sorting Hat admitted. "At any rate, I don't make it a habit of placing people in Houses they don't truly wish to be in, Mr. Cabot. My job is to find a House that will help the individual flourish - and no one can flourish if they are placed unwillingly into a House they absolutely don't wish to be in. Very well, for you, it shall be RAVENCLAW!"

Tristan heard the last part being shouted out to the entire Hall. Plucking the Hat off of his head, he walked to the Ravenclaw table, satisfied. The Ravenclaw table welcomed their new addition with clapping and handshakes from those close enough; Tristan sat down next to Terry Boot, who also shook his hand, and then reached across the way to shake hands with Mandy Brocklehurst (who was sitting across from Terry). Truth be told, he already liked these Ravenclaws - they didn't lose their dignity and go out of their minds when a new student was Sorted into their House, and they had enough manners to greet people politely.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end farthest from him sat the giant of a man who had led them across the lake, and, in the well-lit atmosphere of the Great Hall, Tristan could see that there was a gentle crinkle to his eyes. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore, whose silver hair was the only thing in the entire Hall that shone was brightly as the ghosts. Professor Quirrell, the nervous, twitchy fellow from the Leaky Cauldron, was there as well, sporting a ridiculously large and gaudy purple turban.

The Sorting continued.

"Corner, Michael" and "Cornfoot, Stephen" both were Sorted into Ravenclaw, taking the seats across from and next to Tristan, respectively. They all shook hands and greeted each other politely as a thickset boy named Vincent Crabbe was Sorted into Slytherin, followed not much later by a fine-boned girl named Tracey Davis. Kevin Entwhistle joined them, sitting across from Stephen with a rather relieved looking smile, and another round of salutations were exchanged. Justin Finch-Fletchley hurried over to the Hufflepuff table to a round of applause, and Seamus Finnegan was received with great aplomb by the Gryffindor table.

"Goldstein, Anthony" was Sorted into Ravenclaw as well, a pleased smile on his face as he shook hands with everyone. Slytherin had another addition by the name of Gregory Goyle, who was thickset and looked about as bright as a dead lightbulb. The Hermione girl practically ran up to the stool when her name was called, jamming the Hat on her head, and joined the Gryffindor table a few moments later with a beaming smile on her face. A pretty girl named Daphne Greengrass tossed her dark hair as she strode confidently over to the Slytherin table after her Sorting, and then Wayne Hopkins went to Hufflepuff, followed soon after by a tall, lanky girl named Megan Jones, while the petite girl that followed ("Li, Su!") came over to the Ravenclaw table with a lopsided smile.

Then Neville's name was called, and even Tristan winced a bit in sympathy as the other boy tripped on his way to the stool, inspiring a ripple of laughter. First day, in front of the entire student body as well as the faculty? Ouch.

Bright red, Neville meekly placed the Hat over his head; it took a long time for him to be Sorted, but the Hat eventually decided on Gryffindor, to which Neville seemed to go into shock. In fact, he was so taken aback that he forgot to take off the Hat as he headed over to the Gryffindor table, and had to jog back amidst gales of laughter to pass it over to a girl with clear blue eyes named Morag MacDougal, who ended up in Ravenclaw as well. A well-groomed looking boy named Ernie MacMillian was Sorted into Hufflepuff, and "Malfoy, Draco" turned out to be a blonde boy with a pointed face that swaggered up to the stool, then swaggered over to the Slytherin table, a smug look on his face.

There weren't many people left now.

"Moon, Tania" went to Hufflepuff, Theodore Nott was Sorted into Slytherin, a pug-faced girl named Pansy Parkinson also went to Slytherin. And then a pair of twin girls were called up, Padma Patil coming over to their table as her sister Parvati was Sorted into Gryffindor. "Perks, Sally-Ann" went to Hufflepuff, Dean Thomas went over to Gryffindor, Lisa Turpin came over to Ravenclaw, the red-haired boy from the boat who turned out to be "Weasley, Ron" went over to Gryffindor to be greeted by other red-haired people as a dark-haired boy named Blaise Zabini was made a Slytherin.

Then the Sorting was over, and Professor McGonagall was rolled up her scroll and took the stool away.

Albus Dumbledore got to his feet, a beaming smile on his face, his arms spread out wide as if nothing could have pleased him more to see them all there.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" Beaming, he added, "Thank you!"

The Headmaster sat back down as the student body clapped and cheered. Tristan, who didn't know whether to be amused or be concerned, saw that there were a few faces at the Head Table who looked a bit resigned, as if such a thing was expected.

And then the food appeared.

It was a feast, all right, with all of the golden dishes that had been previously empty now simply piled with food. There were several choices, of the best kinds of food, such as roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, fries, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy...the list went on. There were also an entire array of condiments and, for some reason, peppermint humbugs.

Serving himself portions of each, Tristan offered the dishes near him to the others, accepting the dishes they handed to him in return, serving himself some of that, and then, finally, he began to eat. It was all delicious, just as good as anything the cooks or even the caterers ever came up with back home.

"Look at that!" It was Kevin Entwhistle, who had paused in the middle of bringing a fork full of food to his mouth, and was now gaping across the way to the far off Gryffindor table.

Tristan glanced up as well, and paused. There was the ghost with the ruffs and tights before; it was hard to mistake him, although he currently had nearly the entirety of his head on his shoulder, the majority of his neck clearly cloven in two.

There was a bit of laughter from a dark-haired boy who was not a first year. "That's Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost," he explained, and then added, "I'm Roger Davies, third year."

"He prefers to be called Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," said an older girl with light brown hair in a clear, calm voice, further down the table. She smiled briefly, "I'm Penelope Clearwater, one of the fifth-year Prefects. You all can come to me if you need help with anything during the year."

"What do you mean, he's the Gryffindor ghost?" Kevin asked, after a round of hellos had been exchanged.

"Each of the Houses have a resident ghost," Roger explained. "Nearly Headless Nick is the Gryffindor ghost. The Bloody Baron, there, is the Slytherin ghost."

Tristan looked behind his shoulder at the Slytherin table, and found a gaunt-faced ghost sitting next to the pointed-faced boy, Draco Malfoy. He had blank eyes - the ghost, that is - and his robes were covered in silvery stains.

"Is that blood?" Terry Boot asked, sounding horrified and fascinated all at once.

Roger nodded, "But no one's ever asked him how he got covered in it."

It was obvious to everyone why - while the other ghosts were of a friendlier mein, the Bloody Baron was simply terrifying.

"The Hufflepuff ghost is the Fat Friar," Roger continued, and then gestured down to the opposite end of the table, "and our ghost is the Grey Lady." Craning his neck, Tristan managed to catch a glimpse of the Ravenclaw ghost. She was of slender build, wearing flowing robes, and had a prettily intelligent face and sharp eyes. "She mostly sits with the sixth and seventh years because they've a broader and more knowledgeable range of topics she can converse with them about. She's the intelligent sort."

When everyone had eaten as much as they dared, the remains of the food vanished, leaving golden plates and goblets that were just as clean as before the feast had started. A moment later, the desserts appeared - blocks of ice cream in every flavor imaginable, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs, doughnuts, trifle, pudding, all kinds of fruit, and even wiggling piles of different flavored Jell-O.

As Tristan helped himself to an éclair and passed the bowl of green Jell-O to Padma, who smiled in thanks, the talk turned to academics.

"My brother says that Transfiguration is difficult, and Professor McGonagall is strict," Anthony was saying as he picked out a trifle. "Fair, but strict."

"As long as she's a competent teacher," Lisa Turpin put in before spooning some strawberry ice cream into her mouth.

"She is, from what I've heard, and so is Professor Flitwick, our Head of House, and Professor Sprout, the Hufflepuff Head," Terry replied. "It's Professor Quirrell that's going to be a problem, my sister says."

Tristan swallowed the last of his éclair and said, "I met Professor Quirrell at the Leaky Cauldron when I went to get my supplies. Professor McGonagall said that he used to be good, but was traumatized by something during his leave two years back. Whatever happened, it's scared him good. He can't even talk without stuttering, and he looked frightened of just about everything."

"And don't forget Professor Snape, the Slytherin Head," Su Li added. "He's supposed to be pretty bad, too."

"Isn't he one of the wizarding world's top Potions Masters?" Padma asked, confused.

Tristan nodded; he'd read that, too. "But talent doesn't guarantee the ability to teach," he pointed out.

"Right," Kevin agreed. "Sometimes, it's the best who have a hard time teaching others. Mostly because it comes so easily to them that they don't understand how other people don't see it the way they do."

There were a few groans of disappointment. None of them wanted to be faced with an incompetent teacher, and the prospect of there being _two_ to put up with... Tristan wasn't the only one who looked at the High Table just then. As it happened, Professors Snape and Quirrell were actually speaking to each other, and the coincidence of it had them smothering smiles.

"He really does look unpleasant," Padma noted softly. "Professor Snape, I mean."

In truth, the hook-nosed Professor was the only one Padma could have been talking about. While Professor Quirrell was jumpy, he had a baby-faced look to him that made him seem harmless, really, unlike the Potions teacher, who had sallow skin, greasy black hair, and a generally unpleasant air to him.

"I heard he doesn't even want to teach Potions," replied Anthony, just as quietly. "Rumor is that he wants Professor Quirrell's job. That's what everyone says. And that he knows a lot about the Dark Arts."

The way Anthony said those words sobered the mood at their end of the table. Privately, Tristan thought that what 'everyone' said was probably not the same as what Anthony's brother said, but it was easy to believe when one looked at the scowling man.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and the Headmaster got up to his feet once more. He hardly needed to wait, for the Hall fell silent immediately, and Professor Dumbledore smiled before saying, "Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do to remember that as well."

Professor Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flickered to the Gryffindor table, but Tristan was too far away to notice the students being singled out. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone who is interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Only a smattering of students laughed, many of them the younger years. Most of the older students looked puzzled and worried, and Tristan frowned. Was the Headmaster serious?

Kevin echoed the question to Roger, who shrugged, "He must be. It's strange, though, because he usually gives everyone reasons if we're not allowed places. The forest, for instance - everyone knows that it's full of dangerous beasts."

"Then why do they keep it instead of razing it to the ground?" Tristan asked.

Roger looked surprised, as if the idea had never occurred to him. "Why, it's always been here. For as long as Hogwarts has existed."

Tristan knew that, of course, from _Hogwarts: A History_, but he didn't think tradition meant more than the lives of several hundred children. He turned his attention back to the High Table just in time to see the back of Professor Quirrell's purple turban as the man in question turned to say something to the giant man from before.

A sharp, hot pain shot across a point on his forehead - with a hiss, Tristan clapped his hand to the point in reflex, drawing curious looks. The pain faded, gone as quickly as it had come, and he shook his head in confusion.

"Sudden headache, I think," he told the others, and they all nodded and turned their attentions away.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" the Headmaster announced jovially, and Tristan noticed that some of the teachers' expressions had become rather stiff and fixed. Professor Dumbledore, who didn't seem to realize this, gave his wand a little flick, and a long golden ribbon came out of the end. It rose high above the tables and twisted, snakelike, into words. "Everyone pick your favorite tune, and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,  
__Teach us something please,  
__Whether we be old and bald  
__Or young with scabby knees,  
__Our heads could do with filling  
__With some interesting stuff,  
__For now they're bare and full of air,  
__Dead flies and bits of fluff,  
__So teach us things worth knowing,  
__Bring back what we've forgot,  
__Just do your best, we'll do the rest,  
__And until our brains all rot."_

It was chaos.

Tristan, who had chosen to watch and listen instead of singing (due to the fact that his singing voice sounded like the dying honk of a flock of geese), now wished fervently for a pair of earmuffs. His piano tutor would have been absolutely mortified by the mutilation of music that was happening in this Hall. One could hardly even make out the words, since everyone was singing at the top of their lungs to different tunes, and some of these people had singing voices that made Tristan's sound like a choir of angels in comparison.

At last, thankfully, only a pair of red-haired twins were left singing to a slow funeral march. Professor Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and, when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest of all.

"Ah, music," the Headmaster said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

They all stood, the Ravenclaw first years following Penelope out of the Great Hall and up a marble staircase. Tristan was feeling quite full and, as a consequence, entirely too sleepy, and hardly had it in him to be surprised or even interested when Penelope led them through doorways hidden behind tapestries or illusions. They climbed more staircases, their feet dragging and their calves aching by the time they came to a halt in front of a large, oval-shaped mirror that was around two feet by seven feet at the widest and longest points.

"This is the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room and the dormitories that make up Ravenclaw Tower," Penelope told them all in a crisp tone. "To gain entry, you must state the password to the mirror - the password changes every week on Sunday morning, and the new password will be posted in the common room's notice board. Be sure to read and memorize it before heading out. This week's password is: sapientia."

The surface of the mirror rippled - and the glass disappeared, revealing the entrance to a large, airy room with a fireplace and many squashy armchairs. Penelope led the first years through, and Tristan paused to touch the wooden frame of the mirror before stepping in. The male fifth-year Prefect, a quiet boy named Lawrence Bradley, led the first year boys through one door as Penelope led the five girls through another. At the top of a spiral staircase, they found their beds at last: six four-posters hung with midnight blue, velvet curtains arranged at perfect intervals. Their trunks had already been brought up and placed at the foot of each bed; it didn't take long for them to figure out which trunk (and, by default, which bed) was theirs, after which they changed into their pyjamas and fell into bed.

Perhaps Tristan had eaten a bit too much, for he had the strangest dream that night. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's purple turban, which kept telling him that he should transfer to Slytherin at once because that was where he belonged. Tristan, of course, told it quite firmly that he would do no such thing, at which point the turban became heavier and heavier. He tried to get it off, but it became painfully tight - and there was his best mate Chris, laughing at him, which was strange because Chris knew nothing about magic. Then Chris shifted suddenly into an instructor at his primary school whom all the students had hated, and his laugh was high pitched and cold - and there was a burst of green light and Tristan woke, sweating and shaking.

He had barely opened his eyes and registered the pounding of his heart before his eyes were closed again and he was once more asleep. And when he woke the next day, Tristan didn't remember the dream at all.

* * *

As the students slept in their beds, a certain Headmaster was not quite as delighted as he had appeared only hours before. His mein was worried and pensive, his trademark twinkle gone from his eyes as he contemplated the list of first year students.

Fawkes trilled reassuringly from his perch, and Albus Dumbledore tried to smile. "Alas, dear friend, it seems I have made a terrible mistake."

Yes, placing young Harry Potter with the Dursleys had most definitely been a mistake - as Minerva had pointed out in her very best 'I told you so' tone earlier in August when Hagrid had brought the news. It had been Dumbledore's hope that the Dursleys would read the letter and understand, would take in their nephew despite the estrangement between Petunia Dursley and her sister, Lily Potter.

He had relied on his belief that there was good in everyone, and it had led to this.

The Dursleys hadn't even bothered to remember which orphanage they had left the boy at, and all the locating spells that the staff had cast weren't working. Harry Potter simply would not be found. Could not be found. The fact that his name wasn't even in the Book was alarming - it could mean one of three things: that Harry was dead, a squib, or out of the country, out of Hogwarts' jurisdiction.

Albus absolutely refused to believe the first. And if the last were true, then the school in question would have been bragging about their pupil in the news by now. The most likely assumption was that Harry Potter had somehow become a squib after Voldemort's attack - for his name had been present the day he was born. His eager parents had checked for that as soon as possible. And if he was a squib, that meant he was either with an unknown family, or still at the orphanage.

Dumbledore knew all too well what could happen at muggle orphanages, all too well what the blasted places had done to one of Hogwarts' most brilliant students. And more fool him for not helping the lad when he had begged so many times to not be sent back. That was a guilt he would carry for the rest of his life, and now, his decision ten years ago - what he had thought was the best at the time but seemed so foolish today - silently joined the old guilt and added more weight to his aged shoulders.

* * *

TBC…

**A.N. 2:** For those of you wondering why the Hat knew nothing about Tristan being Harry Potter, I do have an explanation. Tristan doesn't know, so the Hat wouldn't see it in his mind, unless he dug around for memories from when Tristan was only a year old. Which, the Hat wouldn't do, because it has no reason to, and it's just looking for personality traits more than specific memories. I think it's a type of Legilimency - the Hat looks for specific things, not every little detail.

For those of you who are worried that Tristan will still end up doing exactly what Harry does in the book? Don't. The reason I started this fic was in retaliation to those fics who do this - place Harry in a completely different living environment and then have him react in exactly the same way as the original. I thought I could do better, and so...here it is. Some things will happen, because I believe in destiny, but a lot of things will be different as well. And I'm especially not going to make Harry friends with other people and have those people react exactly like Hermione and Ron would. That's just annoying, and a surprisingly common problem.


End file.
